3038 kilometres (1888 miles), 204 litres (54 gallons) of fuel, and many power bars later … and my trip to Toronto is complete.

I did a bit of a detour on the way back.  Normally I barrel down the interstates at supersonic speeds … but this time, I decided to take the scenic route through Pennsylvania.  I crossed the entire state on highway 219.

For those who have read William Least Heat-Moon’s book “Blue Highways”, you’ll understand exactly why I did this.  If you haven’t read that book, get it immediately.  Heat-Moon explains with alarming clarity why people should bypass interstates completely on road trips.

There was another ulterior motive here; my mother’s hometown of Lewis Run is just off 219.  Lewis Run is a tiny little blip on the map; the sort of place you don’t drive through unless you really need to.

My grandfather, Lebe, passed away in 1989.  It’s from him that I received my love of collecting and antiques.  Ironically, one of the things I brought home with me from this trip was an antique Sundstrand adding machine (circa 1918) that my grandfather used in his general store for many years.  It was only when I got home that I thought how appropriate it was that this adding machine return to its hometown - albeit briefly - on its way to its new home.

Most people will never have a reason in the world to hear of Lewis Run.  The largest “major” town to the north is Bradford - the home of Zippo lighters and Case pocketknives.  And you can bet that I stopped.

There’s something incredibly delightful about little trinkets like lighters and pocketknives.  I don’t smoke (in fact, I have never, ever smoked anything in my life), but I own two Zippos, just because.  One was made in Niagara Falls, Canada; the other (acquired on this particular trip) is a nice polished-brass model that I bought on this trip.

My reasons for owning a pocketknife are far more pragmatic.  Pocketknives can save lives; tragically, the residents of Cannington, Ontario learned this two weeks ago when a little girl drowned to death in a car accident.  The rescuers - valiant as they were - could not free her from her seat belt in time.  A pocketknife could literally have meant life for her.

(So there’s no doubt: I’m not disparaging anyone involved in that rescue.  It was a heroic attempt, and those people should be commended for braving the freezing-cold waters.)

I own nine pocketknives.  Seven of them are Case knives; the eighth is a Wenger Swiss Army knife, and the ninth is a Smith and Wesson number that looks a lot meaner than it actually is.  And while the Swiss blade is made with the usual fastidious Swiss obsession to detail, there’s something very “right” about the little Case knives that keeps them in my pocket every day.

I’m also proud to carry something from my mother’s hometown.

The most “valuable” of these knives is my grandfather’s old Case.  It bears the marks of many sharpenings, and having it keeps him a bit closer to me.

The last ditty I picked up is a set of Case steak knives.  I have never owned a proper steak knife set, and it seemed like the right time.  They come in their own little wooden case, and I can almost hear the “Andy Griffith” theme playing when I open the box.

Anyways, I’m back in Raleigh.  The temperature is in the high teens (in the 60’s Fahrenheit for the Yanks), and I can’t say that I’m not enjoying having all the windows open in my house.

On that note, time to throw some ‘burgs on the barbeque (grill).